“Why must it be a tangle?” Lady Ravenhurst asked. “Why can you not simply enjoy his attentions?”
Another brief pause. Then a strangled whisper, “He has got a special license.”
“Oh,” Lady Ravenhurst said. “Oh. Are you afraid of what will happen when you refuse him?”
“No,” Jilly said, in that same strange, panicky voice. “I’m afraid I might accept.”
James felt the shock of those softly-spoken words tremble through him like an earthquake. He should have felt triumphant, victorious. He should have felt pleased that his sly seduction, his underhanded courtship was on the verge of success. Instead, a pit of dread settled in his stomach, a sour, churning sensation not unlike nausea. It made little sense, given his scheming. The satisfaction he might have experienced tasted like ashes, like the ruination of something precious and fragile.
Westwood, he told himself. Think of Westwood. Think of Gloriana.
But he could think only of Jilly.
Chapter Fifteen
When at last Jilly and Nora returned to the ballroom, Jilly once again felt the full weight of James’ gaze on her. She did not doubt that he had been watching for her, that he had known the instant she had left the ballroom and he had also known the instant she’d reentered it.
It seemed so unfair that with only a look he could reduce her to some strange, flighty creature. Her stomach was full of butterflies; her heart beat a mad rhythm in her chest, spurred into a chaotic pattern by only a look.
For the first time this evening she glanced in his direction, caught sight of him leaning against a pillar. He was in the company of a dark-haired man who frowned in her direction, something inscrutable in his expression. Jilly didn’t recognize him, which likely meant he’d not been to many Ton events in the years since she’d had her come-out. James hadn’t either, she knew—his attendance at so many this year had set all of the matchmaking mamas into a flurry of rapture, each convinced she could snare him for her own daughter.
She knew she was the envy of many, for he’d only ever seemed to have eyes for her. Unlike Adrian, he had never taken his eyes off of her, never had his head turned by another lovely young lady despite the fact that they were continually paraded before him. They didn’t understand it.
She didn’t understand it. She was so near to being firmly on the shelf, an ape-leader—she wasn’t in the first blush of youth like the other young, fresh-faced, milk-and-cream girls with their lustrous, silky hair and their coquettish smiles and their practiced curtseys.
But he stared at her as if every other woman in the room had disappeared, and for the first time in perhaps too many years she thought that perhaps…perhaps there was a man out there who did know how to be faithful, who would not cast aside her love as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience, a millstone hanging about his neck.
Did she love him? It was impossible to say. She had smothered that part of herself for so long, but she thought she might—might have some level of feeling for him, some sort of affection. She didn’t like it. It wasn’t a comfortable sort of feeling. She could have married him without affection, with nothing but passion between them.
She was no longer certain that her heart would be safe if she did. It was a terrifying thought.
And still, before she knew it, she had taken a few steps away from Nora, away from safety, toward the place where James and his companion waited. She thought she saw, even at this distance, the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes—as if he had succeeded in luring her in with nothing more than the power of his gaze.
And he had. Still, as she approached, he held out his hand to her, lifting her gloved fingers to his lips.
“Jilly,” he said. “You look lovely this evening. I wondered if you would come.”
“It’s Nora’s ball,” she said. “Of course I came.”
“Not to the ball,” he said, on a silky laugh. “To me.”
The man beside him made a scathing sound in his throat, tossing back the last of his champagne.
James shot him a darkling look, though what it meant Jilly could not begin to speculate. “Nick,” he said, “I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure, have you? This is Lady Jillian Kittridge. The Earl of Westwood’s sister.”
“You know my brother?” she asked James, surprised. “You never mentioned.”
James’ eyes shuttered, and his voice was carefully modulated when he replied, “We’ve met once or twice. We don’t move in the same circles.”
Nick cleared his throat expectantly, his jaw taut with strain.
“Lady Jillian,” James said, “This is Nicholas Winter, Viscount Clifton. My oldest friend.”
As the viscount sketched a stiff bow, Jilly felt the butterflies in her stomach explode into flight once more. The viscount was angry, she realized—not at her, but at James. It was none of her business, and ought not to have made her so nervous, but it did none the less.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your title,” she said, hoping to diffuse the tension.
“It’s a courtesy title, I’m afraid,” Nick said. “My father is the Marquess of Sinridge.” Still that apprehension tightened his jaw.
“You’ve quarreled,” she guessed softly, surprised with herself for stating it openly, inserting herself into a situation in which she had no business prying.
“Of course not,” James said at once, his eyes flashing with unease at her perceptivity.
“Yes, in a way,” Nick replied easily. “Lady Jillian, have you a free dance?”
Her eyes darted to James, baffled by the coldness that had entered his eyes, the calculating expression with which he viewed the man he had claimed as his oldest friend. Somehow their quarrel had been about her, she understood. Perhaps the viscount did not approve of her, of James’ pursuit. Perhaps he was annoyed that the friendship that he had once enjoyed with James had been curtailed of late with the attendance that James had danced on Jilly. She found herself wanting to reassure him that she had no plans to come between them even if she and James were to marry, which struck her as ridiculous, given that she had certainly not decided yet to do so.
“Yes,” she said. “I do—I have the next set free; I haven’t filled my dance card this evening.” Because she had been waiting for James to ask her, she realized quite suddenly. She had saved all of her dances so that he might have his pick of them.
“It would be my honor to lead you out,” he said, offering her his arm. There was a warmth in his voice that had been missing from his interaction with James, and she placed her hand on his arm with no small degree of confusion and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
It was a waltz, which would provide for a few minutes of conversation, and the viscount held her in perfect propriety. The only tongues that would wag on account of this dance would be those who decried it as unfair that Jilly had claimed the attention of two eligible bachelors.
“I haven’t seen you dance yet,” Jilly said lightly. “You’ll break the hearts of all the mamas who want nothing more than to snare you for their daughters.”
“I’m not here to find a wife,” the viscount said, his expression still that inscrutably blank stare, as if he had made a concentrated effort to disguise his feelings.
It pitched her nerves into a frenzy, and she felt her stomach perform a little flip. “You don’t approve of me,” she said, her smile brittle.
“On the contrary,” he said easily. “I approve of you very much. Currently, I don’t approve of James.”
“Rather disloyal of you,” she remarked. “I thought you were supposed to be his oldest friend?”
“I am. And as his oldest friend, I reserve the right to make it known when I feel he is being foolish.” A sardonic smile touched his lips. “I suppose I chafe at being relegated to the role of the voice of reason.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, feeling as though something significant had passed straight over her head, resisting her attempts to snatch at it, to gain understandin
g from it.
“You weren’t meant to,” he said. “Lady Jillian, if James has any sense, he will marry you and count himself lucky to have won your affections. But I fear he is too mired in resentment to understand the privilege you would bestow upon him.”
“Resentment?” she inquired. “Resentment over what?”
“It’s not my place to say, unfortunately.” His fingers tightened on hers fractionally, just a bit too much for comfort. “I beg your understanding. I fear he will make a foolish mistake and forever lose his chance at true happiness in the doing. I pray you have a forgiving nature.”
She tried for a light laugh and managed only a strangled little sound. “It would help to know what it is I am meant to be forgiving of.”
But he only shook his head. “If you never have occasion to find out, then he has absolved himself,” the viscount said. “But if you do—pray remember that he loves you, and find your way to forgive. For the both of you.”
She felt her eyes widen, her hand clench on his shoulder for stability, as if the room had tipped beneath her. “He doesn’t,” she said, almost defensively. “He couldn’t.”
“Take it from his oldest friend,” the viscount said. “I doubt he truly realizes it himself, at least not yet. But he will. I only hope the realization comes not too late.”
The last strains of the waltz ended, and the viscount released her, offering a respectful bow. She didn’t know what she was meant to do besides curtsey; there was more she wished to ask him, but she knew instinctively that he would say no more to her. And she felt James’ eyes on her, boring into her like he could uncover her secrets that way. She turned toward him, wondering if he would talk to her, if he would explain his friend’s strange conversation.
But she’d taken no more than a step toward him before she caught sight of Nora rushing toward her, an odd, furious expression on her face.
“I didn’t invite him,” she said in a fierce little voice as she collected Jilly’s hands in her own, dragging Jilly behind her as she hurried off the floor. “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I would never do that to you.”
“Invite who?” Jilly asked. But she looked up, and saw that James’ attention had drifted away from her, his blue eyes cold and penetrating as he stared toward the entrance to the ballroom. Even at a distance she could see the fury scrawled across his face, and it was startling to behold. She followed his livid gaze across the room, past the crowd that was starting to ripple with whispers, and at last she saw what had infuriated him and sent Nora scurrying to her side fluttering with apologies and denials.
Adrian.
She waited once again for the familiar pangs of pain, for a nameless longing for that which had been denied her.
Again it did not come. She stared at him with a strange sense of calm, examined the regular, even features which had once held her adoration, the face of the man she had once loved with every frantic beat of her heart. Once. But no longer? Her heart did not pulse madly, her blood didn’t rush in her veins—it was as if the connection had been severed, the faucet closed off. She looked on him, the man she had once loved beyond measure—and felt nothing. Nothing but a vague sort of pity. Not for him, but for the foolish girl who had wasted so many years mourning his loss, mired in misery.
The crowd murmured, parting to admit James, who barreled through the lot of them like a lion through tall grasses, stalking its prey. He looked elegant and dangerous, and he wore the tightly-leashed tension like a mantle thrown over his shoulders.
Jilly felt Nora’s hand squeeze hers, but her gaze was riveted to where the two men faced off, separated from one another by just a few feet of space. Adrian had not invaded James’ residence, but he acted as though he had, as if Adrian had committed some grievous sin, encroaching upon James’ territory.
“Kirkland.” James’ voice was a feral snarl, clearly audible through the silence that had settled over the ballroom.
“Rushton.” Adrian returned the acknowledgment, but a muscle ticked in his jaw and though he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, Jilly thought he seemed…smaller, somehow, as if some part of him shrank away instinctively from the threat of James there before him.
“I believe I was quite clear in my instructions,” James said, and his hands curled into fists, the lines of tension visible even through his evening gloves. James had spoken with him before? Jilly had not known this; James had never mentioned it to her.
“You were. I simply chose to disregard them,” Adrian replied.
“Your mistake,” James said. And then, so quickly that his movements were a blur, he drew back his arm and launched his fist at Adrian. There was a sickening thud, a crack of bone, and Adrian crumpled to his knees, his hands clutching his face. A great gasp echoed through the ballroom, so profound that Jilly thought even the candles above them had flickered in the massive rush of air.
Adrian canted his head up at last, through what was surely a great deal of pain. His eyes sought her out, fixed on her with a sort of desperation, a longing that she recognized only because she had felt it for years. But now it was gone, and she could only give him a small, firm shake of her head. And she thought that had been the worst pain to him, for his head bowed, and his shoulders slumped in abject defeat.
James shook out his fist absently, his eyes flickering to the servants that lined the hallway. “Take care of him,” he said, gesturing to Adrian. “Put him in his carriage and send him on his way.”
“My goodness,” Nora said. “Well, I suppose that I shall be a popular hostess for years to come. No one would dare refuse an invite for fear they’d miss out on another delicious scene like that one.”
Jilly was aware of the gazes that had swept to her, awaiting her reaction. For the first time she was not embarrassed by them, not shamed by them. These were not the suspicious, vaguely scornful stares to which she had grown accustomed some years before; these were curious and faintly admiring, as if everyone present wondered how she had managed to bring forth such a depth of feeling from the duke that he would risk a public scandal.
And yet somehow she did not think there would be a scandal. Her behavior had always been above reproach. All that people would see was a love-struck man who had been goaded into violence by the man who had damaged his intended’s heart so many years ago.
She didn’t know what she saw when she looked at him. The words of warning his closest friend, the viscount, had given her swirled around in her head like autumn leaves. But she suspected that this man—this strange, intense, volatile man—could prove far more a danger to her heart than Adrian ever had.
Chapter Sixteen
Though she had grown accustomed to his presence in her home lately, accustomed to him seated across from her in the drawing room, today there was something a bit less than comfortable about him. He held his teacup gingerly, and she knew that if he were to remove his gloves, his knuckles would be bruised, perhaps even torn from the impact they’d made to Adrian’s face only last evening.
Aunt Marcheline had declined to come down from her room for tea, though she had left Fenton as a watchful—if deaf—guardian over them, for propriety’s sake. Still, the butler lingered outside the door, his eyes on the foyer rather than the two people partaking of tea within the drawing room he guarded like an ancient dragon.
As she placed a few tiny tea cakes onto a fragile china plate, Jilly asked, “Why did you not tell me you’d met with Lord Kirkland before?”
A muscle ticked in James’ jaw, his gaze darting toward Fenton stationed just outside the door.
“I didn’t wish to distress you. I saw no reason to upset you with the knowledge that I’d met with him,” he said.
“Liar,” she accused, biting daintily into a tea cake. She wasn’t sure how she’d known it was a lie, but she did. It seemed a handy explanation, but she very much doubted he had been motivated by anything so simple as wishing to save her distress—after all, he had caused much of it with his pursuit. A man who would nego
tiate with her during one of the most distressing experiences of her life—Adrian’s surprise reappearance in London—was hardly likely to meet with Adrian simply to spare her more of it.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. “When he arrived,” he said, his voice pitched low, “he sent you fleeing to me.”
That was true enough. It had seemed the logical solution at the time, though now she couldn’t quite recall why. She could just as easily have turned to Robert, or any one of a dozen other men who would have been happy enough to lead her out into a dance. Why she had instinctively fled to the shelter of James’ arms had baffled her.
He collected a tea cake himself. “I did not wish for him to hang over us like a shadow, forcing you to constantly keep watch for him, but neither did I wish to surrender the ground I had gained with you.”
Her breath caught in her throat at the manipulation. So he’d warned Adrian away, but failed to tell her of it? Because all that had kept her at his side, in his company, had been the threat of Adrian’s appearance. Because if she had known that he had routed the threat that Adrian had posed, she would have declined his company.
“You struck him last evening. In front of everyone,” she said.
“He failed to honor the terms of our agreement,” he said lightly. And then, as an afterthought, he murmured, “But I relished the opportunity to do so.”
“Why?” Somehow the answer he gave seemed like the most important one she would ever receive, and her heart thudded in her chest.
“Because he hurt you,” he said simply. “Because he had your love and he cast it aside. He deserved to hurt just as much.” He gave a harsh chuckle, his lips twisting. “Though you might be of the opinion that he has suffered enough already.”
Some creeping sensation crawled up her spine, an icy caress that sent a shiver coursing through her. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Haven’t you inquired about him? About his circumstances, what has brought him back to London?” he asked. “Your friend Lady Ravenhurst—she must know.”
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